Independent Thought
by Ghost Milk
Summary: Greg Lestrade is kidnapped and tortured. He supposes to himself that Sherlock might come and rescue him, but inwardly he doesn't hold much faith. It really would be nice he he could be saved.
1. Chapter 1

_**Yes, hello. Right. Welcome to this story. If you don't like abuse of anything of that nature you should probably vacate the premises now. If you don't like Greg Lestrade you should also go. Or not. Stay, if you want to. **_

_The worst kind of dark_, thought Greg Lestrade as he hesitantly stretched out his aching limbs, _is the warm kind of dark. _He hummed softly under his breath.It was odd, really. Most people would assume the cold kind of dark would surpass the other kind. But that's because cold is less preferable to warmth, right? Warmth is comforting to a person. Then again, any person who suffers from nightmares will tell you that the darkness if often warm, and not cold. It often has you waking in a sweat. Whether that sweat is cold or warm really depends on the nightmare, not the darkness. He had had a lot of terrible nightmares of late.

Shaking his head- though not too roughly- Greg tried to piece together his thoughts and stop supposing about the darkness. What exactly had happened to him, he was unsure of. But he felt warm (it was the warm kind of darkness) and he felt comfortable- apart from the obvious bruising along his body- and that was enough to keep the detective inspector calm for the moment. Thoughts and feelings drifted past him like smoke, intangible to his foggy mind-set. _I suppose I've been drugged, _supposed Greg, and the thought was not surprising or alarming. It was there and he was here and he accepted it as a fact. In all honesty, Greg knew he should probably be worried but the darkness was warm and too comfortable to muster up the strength to move. A soft crackling had filled the background with noises that danced and pricked at his skull, irritating Greg to no end. But the sound was somehow soothing at the same time, so he didn't spend any time supposing over that either.

Using his numbed mind like an extra arm, Lestrade extended it down and through his body, poking around to see if he was still all there. Spots that felt as if invisible fingers were pressing down hard on his bare skin were bruises, he supposed. They ran up and down his body in random arrays. _Probably been hit a few times with a blunt object. _The invisible fingers turned to grabbing hands around his wrists and ankles, cutting off the circulation. Greg was indifferent to that fact. On one hand, he was probably tied up or bound to something, and on the other hand he couldn't bring himself to care. Letting a soft sigh escape his lips, Lestrade relaxed back into the pillow and began to suppose about all the things he had been trying not to suppose about for the last couple of weeks. He supposed about his job, about his unfaithful wife, his kids and Sherlock, and what he would one day have to do to Sherlock and how upset John would be. He let his mind drift and sift through his problems at will. It was a peaceful type of supposing, and he vaguely enjoyed it.

Then another sound started up from a distance, but headed closer gradually. Greg couldn't tell if it was quick or slow, because his drugged mind stretched time into infinite seconds and minutes that lasted a heartbeat, and every moment was the same. It was a knocking sort of noise, and it knocked on his skull and the edge of his consciousness like a hammer tapping a nail. _Footsteps, _he supposed. _Someone's coming to see me. _Greg didn't have time to suppose whether they were good or bad footsteps though, because suddenly he felt another- fresher- warm that wafted over his face and the tapping sound stopped. The new warm was slightly damp, and smelled strangely of garlic. Perhaps it was a person then, leaning over him and breathing in his face. _Well what else could it be? _Asked his mind wryly, because now it had apparently taken on a life of its own and chosen to talk to Greg separately from the rest of his thinking. Greg didn't like his thought's tone so he chose to ignore the question and instead half-heartedly wondered if he was blind.

Gentle pressing started up along his arms. Greg frowned at this, because the contact felt wrong. It was alien and he didn't like it. Where the person touched his bare skin they left patches that first glowed hot like burning lava but then dimmed to normal and left a ghost impression, so he could still feel them there. Greg wished he could tell the other person to get off him, but his mouth felt like it was lined with cotton wool- which, given the situation he seemed to be in, he supposed could have been true- and his tongue was a dead weight. _I could be in a hospital. _He said to himself quietly, in a reserved way. _Wishful thinking. _Chided the other-mind, the one that spoke separately to him now. Greg supposed it didn't really matter, because if this was the person that has bound and blinded him they probably weren't going to act on any of his wishes. The warm wet feeling coupled with the warm darkness was making him uncomfortable, so his foggy mind focused on that instead. Beads of sweat decided to pop up on his forehead, and they threatened to run down his face. Greg thought they tickled and he wanted to swipe them away, but his wrists were still being restrained by invisible hands.

As if the looming presence of the person could tell what Lestrade was thinking, it drew back suddenly and the probing fingers left his skin, making it feel blistered, but without the pain. Instead, the person's fingers moved up his body and started digging at something around his head. _Perhaps I'm dead, _wondered Greg because he couldn't for the life of him figure out what was happening. _Perhaps Sherlock will save us, _echoed the voice in his brain. Not us, Greg told himself, me. He could feel his mind becoming a little sharper, though not much. _We're the same person. _He tried to pull himself inward, so he could form into something that was whole, and not the shattered being he was now. _I suppose..._ whispered the voice back, getting softer and softer until it died away and a roaring started up in Greg's ears. He grunted softly, tipping his head sideways. Then he stopped when he felt his brain hit the side of his skull, shooting pain all the way through his head and down the side of his neck. He wanted the warm, comfortable feeling to come back, because now everything was hurt and everything was on fire. _The worst kind of dark, _Greg told himself once again as the blindfold was lifted from his eyes, _is the warm kind of dark. _


	2. Chapter 2

_**I should probably clarify to you darling readers that this story is not going to be Sherstrade slash. I'm not even sure if Sherlock will be in it at all. I suppose we'll both just have to wait and see, won't we?**_

_**And I know Lestrade's a little OOC right not but I'm just having so much fun keeping him drugged. Anyway, enjoy.**_

The sound that Greg made as soft orange light flooded into his dilated pupils was not strictly a human kind of noise. It hurt. He struggled to turn his face away from the brightness, grimacing as he did so, but the light was all around him on the floor and the walls and the ceiling. To make matters worse, the orange glow flickered, teasing his searing pupils by dancing away a few paces then charging back again, brighter. _Guess that explains the crackling noise, _murmured his semi-lucid mind. _It does? _Greg wasn't sure if he mind was still separately talking to him or if he was now talking to his mind separately. _Fire. _Came the soft whisper in his brain. Greg thought that was just great. Was he on fire then? The only burning touch he had felt was when the stranger had pressed against his bruises, but other than that he had to admit the warm room felt quite pleasant on his battered skin and pounding head. I suppose not, he supposed.

Letting his eyes adjust to the flickering light by only opening them as slits, Lestrade decided it would probably be best to try and get a good look at where he was, who was with him and- very importantly- whether Greg was fully clothed or not. Then he could try and figure out how to escape. If he did indeed want to escape. In truth the detective inspector was still clinging onto the fragile hope that he was still indeed in hospital. A long shot, even he had to admit. Perhaps he'd taken a funny turn- not surprising given his line of work, coupled with the trauma Sherlock brought to him on a day to day basis- and snapped. Perhaps he'd freaked out, hit Anderson and ended up in some psych ward. His mind told him that he was being ridiculous, but Greg once again chose to ignore it, instead answering with a remark about how it was just as bad as Sherlock.

He grunted once more and opened his eyes a little wider. They watered painfully, so he started to rapidly blink them in a vain attempt to rid himself of the pain. That was what they always told you, right? If you got something in your eye you were supposed to keep blinking. Greg caught sight of a huge mirror glinting in the firelight next to him, stretching along the whole wall adjacent to the old bed he was on. His reflection looked like it was having a seizure. Greg stopped blinking and let his eyes adjust slowly to the flickering gloom.

"I bet you're wondering why you are here." Crackled a voice that came from all around him. The crackling stopped when the voice stopped, like static, which led Greg to believe the voice wasn't actually coming from anywhere inside the room, but instead from a speaker set somewhere in the wall above him. Either way, it made him jump, the rope chaffing against his bruised wrists painfully. He sucked in the warm air sharply between his teeth, wincing, which caused him even further pain. _Try to relax. _Muttered his mind with a somewhat disapproving tone.

Since Lestrade's tongue was little more than a dry lump of meat in his equally dry mouth, communication was going to be difficult. Opening his mouth he willed the words to come out, to form sentences and perhaps shout at his captor for being so inconsiderate with the ropes around his wrists and ankles. But when nothing did Greg settled on nodding his pounding head, screwing up his eyes against the pain. It felt as if the world was spinning inside his head and when he shut his eyes it was like he was underwater, where everything was cold and black and up and down where impossible to grasp onto.

"Well why don't you take a proper look around you and _deduce _something." Crackled the voice once again from above. It was bitterly mocking him. Greg bared his teeth and tipped his head towards the mirror on the right. Catching sight off his face in its reflective surface, he shut his eyes and let out a quiet groan. He looked truly awful. There was a large welt across one cheek that oozed with dried blood, making one side of his face swell painfully. The other side was deathly white, the flickering glow of the fire illuminating the dark bruise-like rings under his eyes. Greg's eyes in question were bloodshot and red, the pupil so dilated that the brown was barely visible. Although, perhaps most shocking of all, his hair had been almost completely shaved off. Why? He wanted to asked. Was there a particular purpose in shaving his head? Or was it just out of spite? Greg had always taken his hair pretty much for granted. He liked how it was always just there, on top of his head. Now it was gone he didn't know how to feel. _You've got more pressing issues to worry about than your _hair. Grumbled his conscience, for some reason taking on the voice of Sherlock.

"It's double sided. A two-way mirror. So I get to watch you struggle and bleed and scream and you get to watch me- well. Turn to your right now, Greg Lestrade." Over the sound of the buzzing speaker, Greg did as he was told and felt his stomach drop to his bound ankles. Along the right wall were rows and rows of torture tools. Glinting, shining in the fire-light. Pliers and nails and straps and probes. Knives and scalpels and chains and razors. All deadly sharp and wicked looking. There was a mysterious blue vial filled with softly glowing liquid also, coupled with several syringes. The only reason Greg hadn't clocked the torture tools in the mirror was because he's been too busy staring at his damaged face. Stupid, stupid! He began to break out in a cold sweat; his breathing a little shallower now he knew what was coming. He wanted to plead, no, he wanted to ask why. He wouldn't plead. He wouldn't stoop so low. He was a detective inspector for god sake! Sherlock would know how to find him. He just had to wait until then, had to endure.

Greg opened his mouth and managed a dry cough. He wanted water. He needed water soon. His body was shaking, sweat soaking through his shirt. His head swam and a pounding started up in his ears, roaring through his aching head. Inside his stomach churned. The last Thing Greg heard before he once again sank into warm darkness was the crackling voice start up again. "Shall we get started?"


End file.
